Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
I’d killed in here, cleaned bodies, and carved them up for fun… to teach lessons about betrayal.
What was new for me was keeping someone alive here.
I laid her on the floor. The gown pooled around her like spilled cream. It was hard not to notice the way her nipples hardened against the cold in the air. The building wasn’t heated. It helped in keeping the blood flow to a minimum.
I sliced through the zip ties binding her ankles, freeing her legs just enough for limited movement. But for her wrists, I replaced the flimsy plastic with metal handcuffs, snapping them shut. I threaded a sturdy chain through the cuff links next, securing it with a padlock to the rusted drainpipe overhead. The length was deliberate. It was short enough that she could stand up but her movement was limited.
Any desperate yank would only earn her bruises, the solid steel impervious to picks or raw force without tools far beyond her reach. I contemplated leaving the tape on her mouth but took it off. It didn’t matter how much she screamed. No one would hear her here.
She stirred after about half an hour, and I stepped back, leaning against the steel table and waited.
Her lashes fluttered. A low sound came from her, and in a matter of seconds, she jerked upright, chains rattling, eyes flying open. I stared at her blue eyes, hating that I felt anything but indifference when I looked at her.
She scanned the room before her gaze found me instantly. I watched as realization hit her in stages. And then she made a panicked, fear-stricken sound. Not a scream but one of a cornered animal that knew they were trapped.
I didn’t move, didn’t respond. But then, I felt powerful, feral, and took a step forward. She scrambled back until the chain snapped taut, knees drawn to her chest, trying to cover herself.
“Ty trushlivyy ublyudok!” she spat, voice hoarse from the chloroform. You cowardly bastard! Her Russian was soft and expensive, finishing-school perfect. Her father’s money—blood money—had paid for her upbringing.
I walked toward her, slow, measured, intimidating. My boots echoed around the small room, and she shrank against the wall, breath sawing in and out. My eyes drew down to her still hard nipples poking against the silk of her gown. I stopped and crouched, bringing us to eye level.
“Listen carefully, Zoya Ivanova,” I said in English, voice low. “You’re in my world now. That means my rules.”
Her eyes blazed, but she pursed her lips and said nothing for long seconds. Fire burned in her stare, and my cock twitched because of it.
“My father will—”
“Your father will watch,” I cut in but didn’t elaborate on what exactly he’d be watching me do to her. I pulled a burner phone from my pocket, opened the camera, and hit record. I saw the confusion on her face, but then realization took root and her alabaster skin turned a beautiful shade of pink from her anger.
I held it steady on her face, recording her tears, fury, and bruises her father had given her. I wanted that fucker to see all of it.
“Day one,” I said in a voice that was flat and cold, the lens now pointed at Zoya. “Your daughter is mine now. Watch her bleed for what you did to me and mine.” A rush filled me when I hit send.
The video uploaded to the same dark-web dead drop I’d been monitoring since 2005. It was a private onion service, a server designed for extreme privacy, anonymity, and security. Andrey had spun up on a bulletproof host in Ukraine. No log in. No password. Just a long, static access token he’d embedded in the taunting note he mailed me with the original tape.
I’d memorized that sixty-four character string printed on the back of a Polaroid still from the video.
He thought it was funny giving the grieving son a direct line to his next “product preview”. I knew he got paid to taunt me, by a client who enjoyed the trauma of others and prolonged it.
Andrey was a fool, though. He never changed it. Never rotated the token. He imagined no one would keep checking for thirty-eight years.
I did.
Every month, I chained proxies, logged in through Tor, and watched the upload directory. He used it sporadically with client confirmations, payout proofs, and low-res previews for old buyers who still paid premium.
Arrogant motherfucker. Did he really believe no one held a grudge? Or maybe that no one would ever be strong enough or have the balls to take him on?
But I held on like a knife pressed to the throat, waiting for the right moment to push in and bleed them out.
The video finished uploading and completing, and I felt another wave, a rush of adrenaline that he’d see the proof of life and pain that The Death Dealer had finally come to collect.